University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE EFFECT.

VERY cautiously the lid was opened, and a lock of
soft brown hair fell out, clinging to Katy's hand
and making her shudder as she shook off the silken
trees and remembered that the head it once
adorned was lying in St. Mary's churchyard, where the
English daisies grew.

“She had pretty hair,” she thought; “darker, richer
than mine,” and into Katy's heart there crept a feeling
akin to jealousy, lest Genevra had been fairer than herself,
as well as better loved. “I won't be foolish any
longer,” she said, and turning resolutely to the light, she

opened the lid again and saw Genevra Lambert, starting
quickly, then looking again more closely—then, with a
gasp, panting for breath, while like lightning flashes the
past came rushing over her, as, with her eyes fixed upon
that picture, she tried to whisper, “It is—it is!”

She could not then say whom, for if she were right in
her belief, Genevra was not dead. There were no daisies
growing on her grave, for she still walked the earth a
living woman, whom Katy knew so well—Marian Hazelton.
That was the name Katy could not speak, as, with
the blood curdling in her veins and freezing about her
heart, she sat comparing the face she remembered so
well with the one before her. In some points they were
unlike, for thirteen years had slightly marred the youthful
contour of the face she knew once—had sharpened the
features and thinned the abundant hair; but still there
could be no mistake. The eyes, the brow, the smile, the
nose, all were the same, and with a pang bitterer than
she yet had felt, poor Katy fell upon her face and asked
that she might die. In her utter ignorance of law, she
fancied that if Genevra were alive, she had no right to
Wilford's name—no right to be his wife—especially as
the sin for which Genevra was divorced had by her never
been committed, and burning tears of bitter shame ran
down her cheeks as she whispered, “`What God has
joined together let no man put asunder.' Those are
God's words, and how dare the world act otherwise?
She is his wife, and I—oh! I don't know what I am!”
and on the carpet where she was kneeling Katy writhed
in agony as she tried to think what she must do. Not
stay there—she could not do that now—not, at least, until
she knew for sure that she was Wilford's wife, in spite
of Genevra's living. “Oh, if there was only some one to
advise me—some one who knew and would tell me what
was right,” Katy moaned, feeling herself inadequate to
meet the dark hour alone.

But to whom should she go? To Father Cameron?
No, nor to his mother. They might counsel wrong for
the sake of secrecy. Would Mark Ray or Mrs. Banker
know? Perhaps; but they were strangers;—her trouble
must not be told to them, and then with a great bound
her heart turned at last to Morris. He knew everything.

He would not sanction a wrong. He would tell
her just what was right, and she could trust him fully in
everything. There was no other person whom she
could believe just as she could him. Uncle Ephraim was
equally as good and conscientious, but he did not know
as much as Morris—he did not understand everything.
Morris was her refuge, and to him she would go that
very day, leaving a note for Wilford in case she never
came back, as possibly she might not. Had Marian
been in the city she would have gone to her at one, but
Marian was where long rows of cots were ranged against
the hospital walls, each holding a maimed and suffering
soldier, to whom she ministered so tenderly, the brightness
of her smile and the beauty of her face deluding
the delirious ones into the belief that the journey of life
for them was ended and heaven reached at last, where
an angel in woman's garb attended upon them. Marian
was impossible, and Dr. Grant was the only alternative
left.

But when she attempted to prepare for the journey
to Silverton, she found herself wholly inadequate
to the exertion. The terrible excitement through which
she had passed had exhausted her strength, and every
nerve was quivering, while spasms of pain darted through
her head, warning her that Silverton was impossible.
“I can telegraph and Morris will come,” she whispered,
and without pausing to think what the act might involve,
she wrote upon a slip of paper, “Cousin Morris,
come to me in the next train. I am in great trouble,
Katy.”

She would not add the Cameron. She had no right
to that name, she feared, and folding the paper, she
rang for Esther, bidding her give the telegram to the
boy Phil, with instructions to take it at once to the office
and see that it went immediately.